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I looked like him.
A soft hissing sound as the tape began. Then, drowning out the hiss, some picking on a guitar. Paul mumbling to himself, half in thought, half musical. He stops himself. “Hello.” There is no reply. After a moment, he speaks again. “Kicking me out?”
A voice comes back over the intercom. “No.”
No one really commented on it, as I had always kept my hair different, with glasses, beard, etc. But I discovered it when he first came on telly. I followed them. I watched them grow. Just like everyone else in the world, I wanted to be one of them. And my plan began forming.
Some more chords strum, falling back into the rhythm of earlier. Behind the sound, a distant door closing. More humming to accompany the guitar that soon trailed off. “I’m just finishing up.”
The voice, this time in the same room as Paul. “Yes, you are.”
I plagued them. I had to start with something big so I had something to initially blackmail them. Once they decided not to pursue me because of that, the blackmail only grew bigger. I stalked them, threatened them, sent them pictures of themselves. I gave them a nightmare with a subscription. Something new every week.
Paul starts in on the full song, playing from the beginning, but stops right in the heat of it. “I’m sorry, what are you here for?”
“For you, actually.”
They never could get the police involved or I’d let something out to the public. Did on a few occasions, just to keep them on their toes whenever they tried to pull in a private investigator. The small stuff, though, to show them what just a little bit would do to them, without ruining them. I still wanted the band to be intact when I joined.
“Um…” Paul hedges, uncertain at the wording.
“I’m sorry, could you sign this?”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” His customer service voice turns on. “You want a message? Who’s it for?”
I never demanded anything. They assumed I would stop. And I did, for a while. I slowed and stopped as if losing interest so they put their guard down. It was easy to get a job with the studio and wait till Paul had stayed late one night and everyone else had gone home.
“Yeah, could you write, ‘I’m not dead?’”
A long pause. “I’m sorr—?”
The click of a gun being cocked.“Please? It’s for your bandmates.”
In the morning, they’ll be the first ones in the studio, since they have it reserved, and they’ll go straight to the sound box to listen to the recordings from the day before. It’ll be warm in there. The machines have been running all night.
“What are you trying to do?” There was wavering fear in his voice. A clacking sound, as of a plugged-in bass moved around carelessly. A screeching and thrumming as the strings were messed with in a decidedly non-musical way. The sounds stopped and the unintentional notes faded to silence.
John walks in first, ears confused by the sound in the room: gasping, choking, gagging. On loop.
“You don’t have to do this.”
A growl. “Write it.”
“Yes. Okay.” Faint scratching. “There… What are you—” Footsteps that got louder until something bumped the microphone. A swallow could be heard. His next words were much clearer. “Look, do you want money?”
John falls into the wall behind him, back slamming into it, staring at what shocked him.
“What is it, John?” Ringo says. John is only on time because Ringo picked him up. He looks where John is looking. The staff that come in after him look too, all horrified. Speakers still choking and gurgling.
“No. This won’t take long, Mr. McCartney. If ye just stay still.” These words sounded different. They adopted Paul’s accent.
“What? No. You’re not going to—” Paul was cut off with a yelp and the sound of an impact.
On the double-tracked loop is an overdubbed voice, speaking every ten seconds or so. “Don’t leave this room.” They don’t. They don’t know what to do with the body either, so George isn’t spared when he arrives.
A soft “Ow!”
“Stand.”
Quick breathing. “Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m Billy Shears.”
In the middle of the recording room, Paul is hanging just above the ground, bass string around his neck, in front of a microphone.
The most observant one, someone looking for something rational to distract them, will see the new tape. Someone has left it for them. They play it from the beginning, when I hit record and Paul looked up and noticed me.
Paul grunts, then tries to call for help, even though he knows no one is there.
They’ll see that the recording splits into two tracks now.
There was a brief struggle, and then a choking sound. The microphone being rattled.
“For those of you listening, you won’t want to call the police. But you will want to find me. In fact, I’m the only one that can save you.”
A gasp.
Ringo will stop the tape. The others shout at him, except John, who is frozen staring, all his emotions unwinding and tangling inside of him. “Just play one track,” Ringo says. “Please.” They do, and they listen to the rest of my message.
After, George insists on listening to Paul’s track by itself. He feels like if no one ever heard it, Paul would have been alone in his last few moments, and George wants to be there for him.
“This is what you will do next. You will stage a car crash. Paul was driving home from the studio late. He didn’t see a light change. No one else was involved. He hit a pole and the car caught fire. He was burned beyond recognition before he was found, but he had died instantly of a head injury on impact.
“But this isn’t the story you will give to the public. This is your red herring."
They’ll argue. John and George will yell. Brian Epstein will be called in, and he will rationalize, when he can take a moment to look away from Paul and find his voice.
“Slip clues about Paul’s accident into your music, your albums. If anyone suspects, give them something to find. They will feel triumphant and stop looking, assuming there was a secret Paul McCartney lookalike contest. I will be the savior you were fortunate to find.
“And it will be a story too bizarre and unlikely for most to believe.”
Ringo will venture into the studio when no one is looking, and he’ll find the note Paul left, with a thumbprint of blood stamped over the autograph. Everything they need to find me and to understand what I will be to them.
“Now, about your other options. You could just get me arrested. Then your photos, information, stories would get out. I have that arranged. Or you could ignore me and tell the public the truth. But... if I can’t be a Beatle, no one can. And no, I don’t have a friend who looks like George should the same fate befall him.”
They’ll think of the suicides. They’ll rebel. They’ll weep.
Then, when they’re ready, they’ll retrieve me.
“Or… you won’t have to worry about any of the press. You can mourn in peace. You can pick up your lives with stability right where you left off. You won’t even have to miss him.
“Because I am Paul McCartney.
“And Paul isn’t dead.”